


call it what you want

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M, Montreal Canadiens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about first kisses and deepthroating. In that order. (Set two nights ago, and entirely because of <a href="https://twitter.com/tylerseguin92/status/298834037143908353">this</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it what you want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gigantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/gifts).



> Immense thanks to Julie for the constant support and speedy run through. Also, this is unsurprisingly for Ceej, as usual, and without whom I would be constantly out of GPS range. Surprise! Bet you thought it wouldn't exist. (Apparently I'm determined to write about Tyler Seguin broning the _entire_ NHL.)

P.K. says, “Hey man, good to see you,” and drags Tyler in for a hug. 

It’s been a while since they’ve been around each other, considering the lockout and P.K.’s own contract stuff. Two years is kind of bullshit, and so are the stipulations, but at least it’s something, and it’s not really any of Tyler’s business anyway.

He hugs back, banging his fist loosely against P.K.’s back and then steps away, fitting back in his own space. They’re at a bar a couple blocks away from P.K.’s place, having a quick nice-to-see you before resting up for the game tomorrow.

“Yeah, you too,” he says, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Also, you couldn’t have picked somewhere closer? It’s fucking cold outside, bro.”

P.K. snorts. “Toughen up, Segsy. You have a game to lose.”

He slides out of their booth and takes a minute to grab them a couple beers. Tyler sits back, just watching and P.K. looks back, doesn’t mind the open appraisal and sends his own Tyler’s way. It makes him blush, grateful for the low lights in the bar, but either P.K.’s psychic or he can tell, because he just laughs.

“Fuck off,” Tyler says when he’s close enough to hear, taking a pull of his beer. He can’t help smiling, though, and P.K. grins back, settling in his seat and sipping his own. 

It was probably a risk, hanging out at a bar together, considering they’re in Montreal, and P.K.’s face is such a recognizable one, but no one’s bothered them, and the TV above the bar is turned to the news, anyway.

“How did you even find a place that doesn’t care about your ugly mug?” Tyler asks after a bit, and P.K. snorts again, but he doesn’t answer right away.

The door behind them bangs open and Tyler sinks down lower in the booth on instinct. He was right to, apparently, because the dudes swaying awkwardly in the doorway clearly recognize P.K., if their catcalling is any indication.

“Yo, Subban!” One calls out, and he sounds crazy to Tyler, but P.K. just grins at the guy, friendly as can be. “How’s it feel to be, like, official again?” 

He’s definitely wasted, and if it were Tyler, he’d probably just ignore it, but P.K. is P.K., and instead of being a dick, he just says, “It feels great, man. Tell you the truth, I’ve never been happier.”

Tyler pulls his cap down lower, trying to shield himself from view, and tucks his face in the cowl-neck of his hoodie. He’s not wearing any obvious Bruins gear, not that he would, in this town, but that definitely makes it easier to slide out of the booth and up to his feet.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get next round, yeah?” he asks quietly, and P.K. nods, not even breaking a sweat. Tyler’s pretty good with people too, comfortable with crowds and B’s fans, but whatever he gets at home, it’s nothing like what P.K. deals with on the regular. 

There’s kind of a wait at the bar now, considering more people have come in, milling around, and Tyler plays a whole round of Words With Friends on his phone before he even gets up to the front.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at the bartender and sliding his credit card across the scarred wood. She smiles back at him vaguely until she sees his name, squinting like she recognizes it, and looks between it and his face a couple times.

Tyler’s used to being recognized, it’s even fun sometimes, but it’s always a little awkward when it happens in a Rivalry city, and especially a city like Montreal where every Habs fan within spitting distance totally hates his guts.

She looks back where P.K.’s holding court at their table and smirks a little, tapping her fingernails against the bar.

“Right,” she says, worrying her tongue against the ring on her lip. She meets his eyes and smiles again, really focusing on him this time. “Better get out of here soon,” she says. “The girl taking over for me in twenty minutes is a crazy Habs fan. You might want to get your boy out of here before then, or she might bite you. No joke.”

Tyler grins back and says, “You never know. Uh, I might not mind.”

She laughs again, brighter. On the bar, her hand is almost touching his, and she says, “Pretty sure you would, man. She can be vicious.”

“Yeah? That might be exactly what I like.”

He’s about a minute from asking her name, maybe giving her his number, when somebody slides up behind him. He recognizes the cologne, something low and spicy, Dolce & Gabbana. It’s P.K., of course. Who else would it be?

“Hey,” he says, and Tyler’s not expecting the steady weight of him or the palm on his back, but it’s nice. “You bothering this nice lady, Segsy?”

Tyler rolls his eyes, and for her money, the bartender rolls hers too. “It was mutual bothering,” she says. “No harm.”

She goes to deal with people on the other end of the bar, though, so. Opportunity wasted, probably. Tyler turns, back to the bar, and meets P.K.’s eyes.

“You trying to cockblock me?” he asks, and P.K. just grins at him, smile all teeth.

P.K. leans closer but doesn’t touch. His fanclub is still crowded around the booth they’d been sitting in, occasionally looking over to where they’re standing. P.K. waves a couple times, because he’s a total loser. Tyler leans back in the shadows of the bar and tries not to watch the way P.K. licks his lips.

“Trying to _give_ you cock, man,” P.K. deadpans, leaning even closer. “Give it to you.” 

It’s a terrible line because _he’s_ terrible, but Tyler laughs anyway. It’s easy. Being with P.K. always is.

The bartender slides back over. “Decided on what you want?”

“Another round, please, ma’am,” P.K. says, not even looking at her. The two of them are in a stare off, stuck in it and not giving an inch. Tyler’s not going to lose if he can help it. “On my friend, here.”

She laughs again, and P.K. breaks first, smiling back at her. 

It’s not too much later before they have their drinks, and they clink their rims together before draining them down.

“Psyching yourself up, bud?” P.K. asks, and maybe Tyler is, maybe that’s what’s happening. The crowd in the bar’s getting thicker as he finishes off his beer, waiting for P.K. to do the same.

P.K.’s taking his time, though, lingering like he’s savoring every sip. Tyler socks him in the arm because he’s doing it on purpose, and if P.K. can be a shit, he can too.

“You got all night?” Tyler asks, but P.K. just laughs at him. It’s pretty par for the course, but it doesn’t take long for him to finish up too. He’s confident, though, easy with it like he is with everything else.

“Might have,” he says. “You don’t know.”

He’s ready a few minutes later, and then they’re bundling up to combat the chill and stepping out into the night. 

“You want to come back to my house?” P.K. asks. Tyler can only just see his smirk in the dim street lighting, but it’s bright and obnoxious as it stretches across his mouth.

“You really like calling it a house, huh?” Tyler asks, trying not to shiver in the cold. “It’s an apartment, asshole. _I_ have a house.”

P.K. rolls his eyes. “You’ve got nothing, man. Right now, you have a hotel room.”

“Yup,” Tyler grins. “Somebody making my bed, somebody cleaning up my messes, somebody making me breakfast in the morning... why would I want a house right now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” P.K. says, and opens the door for Tyler when they get to the car, because that’s just the kind of guy he still is, apparently. “You coming over?” he asks.

Here’s the thing about P.K.: he’s _cool_ , this is cool. No pressure, no worries, no nothing. It either happens, or it doesn’t, but he doesn’t care. He’s even got his hands out, palms up, like there could be assfucking on the couch or there could be video games or maybe it’s even cool if Tyler goes back inside and gets a handie from the girl behind the bar.

“Fine,” Segs says, sliding in. “Whatever.”

\--

The problem with knowing someone since you were ten, eleven, twelve years old, is that there’s really no room for surprises. There’s no move he can pull that’ll startle P.K. off his feet, and shuffling into his place a little before midnight isn’t the time to try it.

The apartment’s a mix between tasteful and messy; big, fancy couches and an even bigger TV, of course, but there’s also just _stuff_ everywhere, pictures of various Subbans, blankets and DVDs, P.K.’s laptop up with the Skype app still open.

“You want anything, man? Soda? Another beer?” P.K. asks, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Tyler hangs his jacket up, even though there’s a good 80% chance he’s just going to forget it.

“I’m all set,” he says, and P.K. smiles. “Can’t be too messed up for the game tomorrow or Coach’ll have my ass.”

“But that’s exactly what I want,” P.K. whines, reaching out and grabbing onto Tyler’s wrist. “The less graceful you are on the ice, the better chance we have of winning.”

“You have no chance of winning,” Tyler smarms back, and maybe it’s effective, or maybe not, but P.K. grins at him either way, still hanging onto his wrist. It’s the only place where they’re touching.

They've never really spent a lot of time kissing. Not for any particular reason, or anything, but it’s just never something they tried. It’s kind of a shame, because Tyler actually likes it, and P.K.’s definitely got the mouth for it, but the few times they’ve done this have involved their lips occupied in other, more creative ways.

Tyler’s pretty sure that’s the way it’s going to go tonight, too, but P.K. lets go of his wrist to wrap an arm around his neck and drag him close. He presses his lips right at the corner of Tyler’s mouth and then pulls him even closer.

He doesn’t mean to moan, but it happens, sharp and involuntary, and P.K. laughs against his mouth, doing it again and straightening up this time, hitting his target straight on. Tyler kisses back, wraps his arms around P.K.’s waist and lets himself sink into it. 

P.K. moans, too, right up against Tyler’s mouth. The feeling of it is something else, and Tyler shivers without meaning to, grinding their hips together. Maybe they both do, because P.K.’s moving too.

P.K.’s the one to pull away first. He looks a little shaky, and Tyler feels the same, anticipation thrumming through his veins, sparking in his fingertips. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, but P.K. just grins over at him, like he knows that Tyler’s hands are shaking and doesn’t even care.

He wouldn’t.

“What do you want?” P.K. asks. 

He unzips his hoodie and drops it on the couch, and tugs off his button-up too, standing around shirtless like it’s nothing. Tyler just stares for a minute before he does the same.

“What do you want, Segs, come on.” He’s repeating himself, so Tyler eats up the space between them, fitting his hands to P.K.’s waist and kissing him again. He goes easily, sliding down against the couch like he’s fluid, like maybe his limbs are made of water.

Tyler would believe it.

“I want to blow you,” he says. “That cool?”

P.K. meets his gaze head on, and then they’re off and staring at each other again, except now, Tyler’s sinking down to his knees and leaning in between P.K.’s spread legs.

He laughs, says, “Is that—fuck you, Segs. Yeah, it’s cool. Of course it’s cool. Why aren’t you on my dick already, man?”

He makes quick work of his jeans, not even bothering to unzip them. He just tugs them down and leaves his boxers around his knees too.

Tyler likes giving head, likes the feel of it, the weight on his tongue. He doesn’t waste time once P.K.’s ready, jacks him once, twice and then pulls forward enough that he can get his mouth around the head.

It takes a sec to get a good rhythm going, but they’ve done this before, so their bodies know each other, even if it’s been a long while. Tyler knows all of P.K.’s moans, all his moves, and he’s expecting it when that guy breathes heavy, curling his fingers against the back of his neck.

Tyler sinks down lower, loosening his throat and breathing out through his nose, just trying not to choke. It doesn’t surprise him that P.K.’s quiet, save for changes in his breath and the comforting, insistent way he keeps his hands on Tyler’s head, not exactly petting, but close.

He’s hard. Tyler likes giving head, so it’s not all that surprising, but he adjusts himself in his pants anyway, trying not to get distracted from the task at hand.

“Hey, hey,” P.K. says, and Tyler pulls up, pulls off with a pop. It’s. He feels the color flooding to his cheeks, knows he must look like a total dork, but it’s not like he can help it. P.K.’s staring him right in the face, doesn’t let him drop his eyes away. “You,” his voice comes out harsh, hushed. “Shit.”

Tyler licks his lips, whole body heating at the way P.K.’s eyes track it. “Sorry, bud. Not into scat,” he says, and P.K. laughs so hard, Tyler can feel it in the way his thighs shake.

“Good to know you’re not springing anything new on me,” he says. 

They’re both quiet again, Tyler sinking back down and letting his mouth fill up with P.K.’s cock, opening his throat and hollowing his cheeks as best he can from his position. 

It doesn’t take much more to get all of him in, and Tyler keeps his eyes open, focuses on his breaths, his heartbeat, and the way that P.K.’s shaking above him. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s happening.

His own dick is straining against his briefs, and Tyler wants to touch himself, but right now, he wants to get P.K. off more.

“Segs,” he grunts, after a few more seconds. “Segs, shit. I’m.”

Tyler can feel it, wants to feel it, and nods, not bothering to move while P.K. clenches and unclenches his fingers against the back of his neck, his shoulder. He comes, and Tyler can’t really taste first spurts that hit the back of his throat, but when he can, it’s familiar, it’s all familiar, salty in his mouth and not pleasant, but not bad enough that he doesn’t chase the taste.

He falls back on his ass when he pulls off and then just flattens on the floor that way, stretching out and too unsteady to really stay crouched. His knees are going to feel it tomorrow, but whatever. He’ll deal with it then.

P.K.’s sitting, still dazed on the couch, but that’s okay too. Tyler appreciates the silent praise for a job well done. If _P.K.’s_ quiet for so long over something, then it must be pretty special.

Tyler smiles and the corners of his lips sting slightly from the strain. He doesn’t even care, though, can’t care, not when P.K. peeks over the edge of the couch and grins, eyes wide and a little unfocused.

“You’re still really fucking good at that,” he chirps, and just laughs when Tyler flips him off.

“Fuck off,” he volleys back. He’s smiling too big for it to really hit hard, though, and P.K.’s still grinning, too.

It’s ridiculous, but he still feels pretty great when P.K. slides down, covering Tyler’s body with his own and unfastening his jeans one handed.

“You’re hard,” he says, laughing like he’s surprised. Tyler would kick him, maybe, if he could actually manage to coordinate his limbs. 

“Do something about it,” he mumbles, right into P.K.’s mouth. They’re kissing again, one of P.K.’s hands pressed to Tyler’s cheek. His other is jacking him, slow like torture, slow, but tight. Slow, like he’s bringing him to the edge and keeping him there. Slow, like they’re kissing, still, and slow like he doesn’t care how long it takes.

When Tyler comes, it’s almost an afterthought, and P.K.’s still there, holding him steady.

**Author's Note:**

> I have only been to Montreal once, and to P.K. Subban's home never, so I'm not sure if there are bars around where he lives. As such, I tried to keep the descriptions of the area as vague as possible, but please let me know if I've gotten something egregiously wrong, and I'll be happy to try and fix it to the best of my abilities.


End file.
